


Bird in an Aviary

by misanthropyray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Centaurs, Crack, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has wings. Sherlock is a centaur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bird in an Aviary

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever actually attempted to write crack before. I think this is the most profoundly bizarre and confusing thing I've ever produced. Just go with it, yeah?  
> Borrowing heavily and containing spoilers for Silver Blaze.
> 
> Beta-ed for me by the ever-wonderful Vash137.
> 
> (Title yoinked from Patrick Wolf. Thanks, Patrick!)

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, hooves loud on the floorboards. “I’ll be going out today, John.” He circled the table once and stood over John as he ate breakfast, crowding John’s wings against the back of the chair and flicking his dark tail against his haunches with a soft patter.

“Out? Where are you going?” said John, curling his cramped wings inwards with a quiet groan, giving them some space from the weighty horse barrel pressing against them.

“To Bodmin, out on the moors.” Sherlock smoothed down the fabric of his shirt along the line where skin met the almost black hair of his whithers. The move bordered on self conscious, something he rarely displayed. Almost as though he was waiting for something. Waiting for John?

It wasn’t a surprise that he was leaving town. The only surprise really was that he hadn’t left days earlier. The case of the missing racehorse and the death of its trainer had been splashed over the front page of every newspaper, the subject of many an overheard conversation on a packed tube.

The previous day, Sherlock had been roaming the house in an intense and thoughtful silence, the only sounds echoing through the house were that of his hooves tearing new holes in the threadbare rug and the occasional crack of horsehair whipping against furniture at speed. He’d disappeared briefly to the newsagent over the road and returned with most of the contents of their news shelves. He picked through each painstakingly before launching the paper across the room in disgust. A frustrated sound would pass his lips on occasion, before kicking out one of his hind legs against a crumbling patch of wall that Mrs Hudson had re-plastered four times in recent months and refused to fix again. The entire flat felt as though it was a waiting ground, the mood pensive and on the verge of something about to break.

It was the only case around that could challenge his powers of analysis; the disappearance of the favourite runner of the Grand National and the untimely death of its trainer who appeared to have protected his charge until the bitter end.

“Would you like some company? Only if I won’t be in the way.”

“It’s not a coincidence that your work schedule has become free for the next couple of days, John,” Sherlock said with a knowing smirk. “If we leave now, we can probably catch the next train from Paddington. I can talk you through the details on the journey.”

John jogged up to his room to pack a small overnight bag, throwing in some toiletries, a change of clothes, his old sleeping wing-net and trusty Browning. Sherlock paced restlessly downstairs but it wouldn’t do for John to forget the essentials whilst getting carried away in the excitement. He threw the bag over his shoulder and returned down the stairs to where Sherlock waited, a smile creeping across his face at John's return. John climbed on to Sherlock's back and he galloped down the stairs and out the door. John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock's torso as they ran through the streets of London, John’s sand-coloured wings trailing flightlessly behind them, feathers ruffling in the wind. They made it to Paddington Station in just under 20 minutes, entirely bypassing the rush hour traffic.

The first train going west was biped-only, so they had to wait another ten minutes for a quadruped carriage to be attached. Centaurs were still fairly rare, even in London, and the vague threat of discriminatory accusations was enough to scare the rail staff into giving them the best possible service. A hasty upgrade to first class due to the delay made it more difficult to complain. They waited in the boarding lounge away from the majority of the delayed commuters and their stage-whispered aggression. The audible sighs of annoyance as Sherlock walked into the station had been trying enough for both of them. He hid it, of course he did. Held his head high as though he couldn’t hear the abruptly muted jeers as he passed.

Wings were pretty rare too; in a city like London it might be as many as one in twenty people with them, out in the countryside it would definitely be cause to stop and stare. Centaurs were rarer still; maybe one in a thousand being born and less making it to maturity. They were stared at too but it was different for them.

The wings were seen as a gift or a calling, something to be desired even though they usually remained heavy and flightless. People would walk too close on the pavement and brush their fingers through John’s feathers and think he wouldn’t notice, as if his wings weren’t the most sensitive part of him. They would approach him, not as John, not as the soldier, not as the doctor but as the winged man; nothing about him mattered to them, he was a nameless, faceless mass of flesh and feather. John's wings had first erupted when he hit puberty at 14, ripping through the flesh and morphing his skeleton around them. He’d spent weeks in King Hospital’s Aviatory Department, which staff simply referred to as ‘The Wing’. They monitored his progress, kept the pain muted and manageable. Then he emerged, John had unashamedly taken his fill of the adoration. It wasn’t long before the crushing emptiness of the encounters began to weigh him down. When he was old enough, he moved to London because that’s just how it was; if you’re an other, you moved to a city as soon as you could.

John was seen as an outsider and treated as one. Sherlock was also an outsider. There should have been beauty in their rarity but the centaurs had never been glamorised in the same way as the wingers. Many of them were slower (jokes about not enough blood to power their legs and brain), took jobs in manual labour, and rarely amounted to much. Sherlock would have been born a centaur and living with the assumptions that came along with it. The horse body was seen as an embarrassment; over-sized, unwieldy, and naked. Especially in London, the space to move was given up with reluctance.

Entering the private section of the quadruped carriage, John threw his bag into the overhead storage. The room was small but so far superior to the cramped and ill equipped standard class. On one side, there was the biped seating, two fully backed seats for blessedly normal torsos and one with a hollow behind it to comfortably accommodate wings. The hollow was lined with shredded fabric that nestled against the feathers, moving slightly with the train to polish and shine them along the way. John leaned back in to the seat, riding out initial tight compression before the wing chamber adapted to its new inhabitant’s unique shape. The tickle of the fabric soon relented into a comforting press and slide over the flattened feathers.

On the other side of the cabin was a curved and padded shelf-like structure jutting out from the wall. Sherlock stood alongside it, lining himself up and heaving up his belly as he sidestepped into the seat. He relaxed, redistributing his weight and laying out some notes on the small shelf in front of him before staring out the window at London disappearing into the distance. As Sherlock gazed out of the window, John allowed himself sneaking glances, eyes raking over Sherlock's body, his smooth hair a deep mahogany in the sun and midnight in the shadows.

“So I assume you’ve read about the murder of John Streaker and the disappearance of Silver Haze?” Sherlock didn’t look away from the window as he spoke, the colours dashing past and reflecting slightly, dappling the pale surface of his skin.

“I’ve seen what the newspapers have to say about the whole thing, yeah.”

“It’s one of those interesting little problems where the solution lies in hunting through the polluting theory and embellishments of the news media and uncovering the framework of undeniable fact. I got a text from Detective Inspector Gabriel of the Cornish Police on Wednesday asking me to look in to the matter.” Sherlock raised one of his rear feet, dragging the tip of hoof along the floor slightly before setting it back down again. The strong muscles of his hint quarters rippled and flexed in the shifting light, dancing under dark, well-groomed hair that covered most of his body.

“Wednesday? But it’s Friday morning, why didn’t you leave sooner?”

Sherlock looked over, his face dancing in quiet amusement, “I expected them to find the horse; the abductor would be John Streaker’s killer and it would save us having to leave Zone One. Evidently I was wrong. I shall try not to overestimate the deductive powers of regional police forces again.” He laughed before setting about supplying John with the details of the crime at hand that he’d managed to glean from the newspapers.

“We’re distantly related, you know, Silver Haze and I. That’s not his real name; it’s Penfarrow.” John looked up at him in surprise. Besides the occasional barb at Mycroft, Sherlock rarely spoke of family, distant or otherwise. “From the side of the family before the centaur divide, obviously. Prone to racing brilliance which almost makes up for their social bullishness. Keeps them busy enough not to attend family gatherings thankfully although, granted, they are more intelligent than most people I’m forced to deal with.” John smiled, warmed by the image of Sherlock looking down on his single-species relatives that have won countless trophies over the past decade.

“Silver Haze was the three to one favourite for next week’s Grand National so there are plenty of people who would profit from seeing him forfeit the race. Streaker was Silver Haze's trainer and by all media descriptions a decent, family man. The stables were kept under round-the-clock security.” Looking out of the window, Sherlock recounted the facts while sorting through them in his own brilliant mind. John watched him; the flicker and gleam in his eyes as he reeled off the information, the light flick of his tail while he pondered possible connections. A warmth spread through his chest and his wings shuddered in their padded enclosure; John leaned back into them in an effort to hide the movement, suddenly embarrassed. Careless.

Sherlock turned his head sharply, looking over at him through narrowed eyes. Had he seen? If he’d somehow missed it, the flush spreading across John’s cheeks would have been obvious enough. Sherlock didn’t say anything, thankfully.

* * *

DI Gabriel was waiting at the train station, attempting to usher them directly into the waiting police car. Gabriel seemed disconcertingly young to be a DI, with dark hair and overdeveloped, muscular forearms. His uniform was creased and haphazard. Despite the name, he wasn’t a winger.

They didn’t have the resources of the Metropolitan police and the vehicle parked beside them reflected that; a biped car with a trailer attached to the back for Sherlock. John strongly doubted there was even the requisite intercom system installed. His wings flared reflexively as he imagined tucking them into the cramped space in the car.

Sherlock’s tail began to flick and whip against his hind legs in disgust. “Lead the way, we’ll follow on behind.” His words filled John with a visceral relief that ran over his shoulders and through to his covert feathers. Sherlock extended a hand down to John, who took it, pulling himself up and throwing a leg over his broad back in one well-practised move. Sherlock smirked down at the DI in silence dissent. He remained still as the Inspector scowled at him, mumbling under his breath before getting into the car and pulling away.

As they ran together through the country lanes, John felt an intense rush of happiness. This was it, the synchronicity he had been looking for, the perfect motion of two bodies in harmony. He wanted to fly, chastising himself immediately for the thought.

Wingers and Centaurs could spend their entire lives looking for their other half and even then, most never had any success. If, through luck or hard work or devotion, they did manage to find their other, that one perfect match, it took years to sync with them. The process took time, each cell adapting and harmonising until one day, it all clicked into place; two bodies that could work as one in perfect union. The wings were useless until then, weighted and useless. When the change happened, the bones would hollow out and become as strong as diamonds. The flight muscles would strengthen enough to support not only the weight of the body, but also that of the centaur.

The wings wouldn’t be the only things that changed in the process though. The centaur’s entire internal physiology would shift slightly, compacting and making room for the bones in its ribs to adapt, forming two sharply concave furrows either side of the ribcage. The legs of the winger would slot into the indentations perfectly, anchoring them together for flight. The two bodies adapt to make room for one another, until one day they simply slotted into place.

It was the deepest fantasy of anyone who had been born as a variant and everyone knew those fantasies rarely came true. John had only known Sherlock a few months. He wasn’t even sure that Sherlock really was his other yet, let alone how Sherlock felt about the entire situation. It wasn’t something he could ever see them explicitly discussing, now or ever. He felt out of control, his emotions taking him on an entirely separate path from his logical mind. What did it feel like? Did the person have to make a conscious decision or did their body do it for them? Could someone sense when their cells had begun to adapt to another or was it totally silent in the background? They were questions John had never taken any real interest in before. Since meeting Sherlock, he’d begun to lay awake at night to think about them.

John clung to him as he raced through the narrow lanes, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s panting chest, moving against him as their bodies rose and fell.

The police car pulled into a car park at the edge of the moor, but Sherlock continued his gallop, launching them over the ditch and across the undulating grasslands to the small group of people in the distance.

After John dismounted Sherlock, they approached the group and received a briefing from one of the officers. There had been no new developments in the case since they’d begun their westward journey and everyone seemed thoroughly frustrated. When they had finished being updated, Sherlock took off around the stable building, circled it twice in a smooth canter, staring at the marks on the ground, the building, the surrounding landscape and the sky.

Letting himself into the building, he interrogated the stable hands and Streaker’s wife with brutal efficiency.

“John, we need to see the exact spot where Streaker was murdered.” Sherlock spoke in a fervour as he left the stables, his hands darting and moving in front of him. “It was away from here, further out into the moors, we need--” He carried on talking, seemingly to himself, as he abruptly broke into a gallop out, taking off towards a hill and sending a spray of mud and grass behind him.

John watched him for a few moments, his coat shining and brilliant, his torso leaning forwards into the wind that tousled his hair, and his black tail flowing out behind him. Whenever he left like that, when his own excitement eclipsed all else, John felt a heavy weight in his chest, pendulous and nauseating. His hand pressing down on his ribcage did nothing to ease the discomfort.

He asked an officer where the body had been found and the man pointed over this hill and directed him through the small copse beyond it.

When John found him, he was circling a small, crater-like dip in the grass.

“I said, what do you make of this?” Sherlock said without looking up.

“Sherlock, I’ve been...” It was pointless to point it out to him again. Sherlock was holding out a small, silver scalpel out to him and John took it, turning it over in his hands. “It’s a cataract scalpel. Where did you get this?”

“It’s the murder weapon. The charming DI Gabriel had it in his pocket. Streaker left the house with the blade that evening but why? If you needed a weapon to protect yourself, that would be the last thing that you chose. And how did Streaker manage to die by his own inadequate blade? See here, John.” Sherlock moved to the other side of the dip to a large tuft of purple moor grass, “they found his jacket laid over this bush but there was no wind that evening, just a heavy rain. The jacket must have been placed there for a purpose.”

He held his splayed hands up as though filtering the details of the scene through his fingers, breaking the world up with his digits and putting it back together again to see what was missing. “And where is the horse? Surely not just roaming the moors? It’s highly recognisable; it would have been spotted by one of the locals by now.”

Sherlock widened his circle of investigation, finding some tracks and following them further afield.“John, see these marks. They’re the perfect impression of the Cottam Split shoe. Someone would never put a moor pony in a Cottam shoe, they’re racing’s finest.”

Following the marks in the ground with his hands, he motioned towards the grassy dune before them, abruptly raising up on his hind legs to get a better view. He must have stood roughly eight feet tall, towering above John. The sight was breathtaking; his face the picture of fierce concentration, his glossy coat shining, covering an undulating motion as the great muscles pulled and flexed to hold his mighty bulk aloft. John’s heart raced though he tried not to examine the sensation too closely.

Sherlock extended a hand out without looking, blindly reaching out to John, fingers wriggling with impatience when John failed to take the offering immediately. He laid a hand in Sherlock’s waiting palm and Sherlock yanked John up onto his back in one lightning fast movement. As soon as John’s hands found Sherlock's hips, he set off, racing over the moor towards a neighbouring stable that stood on the horizon to the west. The sound of Sherlock's approach caused a commotion outside the building. A heavy-set man waved his arms, and two lithe males scattered under his apparent instruction. Seconds later, a horse and rider galloped away through one of the side gates. .

Sherlock corrected his course to intercept, jumping over bushes and shrubs in his path and racing towards the stolen stallion. His back was almost flat with the speed and John’s fingers burrowed into the heated flesh of his waist. Sherlock’s shirt had rucked up during the chase and John’s fingers relished the feel of hot skin beneath them. John’s heart hammered loud in his ears to the backdrop of Sherlock’s hooves. He held on, drawing himself closer, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s back as though it was utterly out of his control. He lost himself in the pounding rhythm of Sherlock's gallop, the scent of fresh sweat that covered their skin and the adrenaline that pumped through John’s veins.

They landed with a jolt after clearing a line of hedgerow and it sent a sharp ripple of pleasure through John’s groin. He regained his focus and became coldly aware of his own body. He was painfully hard against Sherlock’s back, the rise and fall of his run thrusting John’s body against Sherlock. Under a wave of crushing embarrassment, he pushed himself back, tucking his legs into the hollows behind Sherlock's equine shoulders to keep his balance and putting his hands flat against the sweat-sheened hair of his whithers. John focused on simply breathing, willing away the unruly blood from his erection as they neared the rogue horse.

The horse ahead turned to race behind an abandoned barn as they drew close, Sherlock shouting out, “Penfarrow, stop!” The horse reared up immediately, felling its rider whose ankle twisted with a sickening crack. They came to a stop beside them and John dismounted Sherlock immediately, turning away from him as his cheeks grew burning hot with embarrassment. He concerned himself with examining the rider’s ankle as he writhed and shouted on the grass while Sherlock spoke to Penfarrow. He had both hands touching the horse’s face and spoke to the horse with a look of intense concentration. The horse seemed to understand and responded in a series of quiet neighs. When they’d finished, Sherlock dropped his head down, touching his forehead against that of his relative before they spent am affectionate moment nuzzling against each other.

A phone call later, the police arrived followed by an air ambulance. Sherlock regaled them with the outcome of the crime, the details filled in by Penfarrow’s eye witness account. He told them of John Streaker’s plan to make a shallow nick to the horse’s tendon, inducing a slight lameness and throwing its chances of winning the Grand National. “John, would you show us exactly where the incision have been made?” said Sherlock, raising one of his hind legs and looking at him expectantly.

John sank to kneel beside him, resting the weight of the leg in one hand and cradling his coronet band where the flesh joined with the hard surface of the hoof beneath it. He ran a cautious hand up the back of the leg, smoothing over his rounded fetlock and coming to a stop at the hock. His fingers traced over the thick muscles that ran just beneath the surface of the taut skin, pressing in and finding the sensitive tendons anchoring them to the bone. Sherlock stood stock still and as he worked, John marvelled at the power that he held in his hands; the sturdy muscle and the powerful bones that could crush a man’s skull with a single move. As the police officers stood watching, John ran a finger over the line of vulnerability, where the smallest of incisions would have ruined all chances of winning the race and how that position would have left Streaker susceptible to any retaliation from the horse. As he did so, Sherlock made a noise, low and throaty and followed by an abrupt cough and a flick of his tail. When John looked up at him, he studiously avoided his gaze.

He lifted his leg from John’s cradling palm and continued his tale. He spoke of the horse’s resistance to the blade and how Streaker’s death had come about by his own selfish idiocy, not that of some thieving murder. All the while, his eyes shone. He circled the group of officers while he reeled off the facts, so thoroughly in his element and basking in their disbelieving stares. And while he danced for them, his finely tuned performance for the world, he looked to John; smiled with an expression that brought colour to John's cheeks in a warm flood. There seemed to be two separate conversations happening, one between Sherlock and the crowding policemen (brilliant and concise and entirely audible) and a silent exchange between the two of them (a dancing frisson that was louder than words).

The sun had dipped below the horizon when the ambulance helicopter disappeared into the distance and the police had finished taking their statements. The remaining police officers were leaving in single file, following each other’s torchlight in the darkness and mumbling insincere offers of a ride to them that trailed off into ignored silence.

“I suppose we need to find somewhere to stay then,” John said, starting to walk towards the dots of light in the distance, his body tired, his wings hanging low and heavy on his back.

“John...” he turned to look at Sherlock who hadn’t moved to start the walk back, but instead stood staring at the floor, one of his front hooves pushing and prodding into a turf of grass. “I... there’s... John, there is a place near here. That I know of. I stayed there once in my formative years.”

“Ok, sure, which way?”

Sherlock avoided his gaze still. “Actually, no. Forget it. It’s not... We can get the last train back to London.” He began to walk in the direction that the officers had taken but John stopped him as he passed, laying a light hand on his equine shoulder. There was no force behind the touch, but Sherlock halted immediately, silently staring down at the hand his forehead creasing as though he had expected this moment, whatever this moment was. He was nervous. John didn’t believe nervousness was in his emotional repertoire yet it danced across his features in the darkness.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m sure we’ve missed the last train. Besides, a rest in the countryside might do you some good. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m tired, let’s go.” He reached down and placed his palm over John’s, cushioning him between smooth skin and silken hair, before lifting the hand and gently threading their fingers together. His hands were warm and gripped tightly as though stopping John from leaving. His touch was electric and impossibly right, the press of their skin together felt like it had always been that way and always would be.

Sometimes, John thought Sherlock knew. Sometimes, Sherlock would look down with those eyes and he thought he could see the question that had been on John’s lips since the moment they met. Sometimes, he would stand too close and not make a sound while John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s powerful body radiating into him. But not always. When Sherlock was bored or caught up in a case, there would be casual affection in his eyes, his voice, his movements, but nothing more. Nothing of the burning heat that John felt inside him that threatened to spread and burst out of control at any moment, devouring him whole. Now it felt inescapable.

Sherlock pulled him onto his back but kept their hands fixed together, the joined fist hanging by his side as they walked. John looked at their hands, intertwined, fingers indistinguishable in the darkness and his thoughts flashed to the future: their bodies perfectly in tune with one another, changed and adapted to fit, soaring through the sky together and looking down London sprawled beneath them. He pulled himself closer and pressed a hesitant kiss against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“You were amazing today, Sherlock.”

John stayed there, millimetres away from Sherlock's neck, feeling the heat of his skin radiating out into the night air. He said nothing. John shifted again, using his free hand to push up under the edges of his shirt and run his fingers along the separating line between hair and skin. He wanted Sherlock to react. Any reaction. Had John been wrong? Had he misread the signals? He was offering himself and Sherlock was saying nothing. For better or worse, he waited, hands touching his skin and lips so close to him that he could feel his proximity.

And then there was a sound. It began low in the belly of his horse half and reverberated through him, before erupting as a groaning cry into the night.

“Sherlock, did you just whinny?”

“It was an accident, I’m sorry.” He released his hand from John’s and sped up his walking, a hot flush covering his skin.

“I’ve never heard you sound so equine. It was beautiful.”

“You think so?”

“Of course it was, stunning. Absolutely stunning.”

“That’s not what most people say.” He turned to look at John, finally, his profile sharply angular in the moonlight. His expression spoke of a childhood of exclusion, an adolescence of mocking and an adulthood of loneliness. He couldn’t hide his body, but he could hide the mannerisms and ignore the instincts that crept in at the edges. John didn’t want him to hide anymore.

John took his chin in my hand and kissed the side of his mouth that he could reach. “Come on, let’s just get to where we’re going.”

* * *

The building was surrounded by dense forest with a small path leading to the dimly lit front door. If you weren’t looking, you’d ever know it was there, doubly so under the cover of darkness. There were no markings or a sign to indicate that it was anything other than a secluded, private residence. They approached the door, which was wider than it was high leaving enough room for two horses to comfortably entire the premises side by side.

A well-kempt boy in his early twenties showed them to one of the rooms. He had a pair of black wings that stood proudly from his upper back and swayed gently as he guided them through the wide hallways. He bid them a good night before politely retreating. Their room was as spacious as the rest of the place, decorated in the style of a country lodge with sturdy wooden furniture and lightly floral wallpaper. A large ‘L’ shaped bed stood in the centre of the room. In the recessed space of the bed was a loose covering of white synthetic hay that almost blended in to the white linen covering the longer side of the bed.

John stripped down efficiently to his boxers, climbing onto the bed and pulling the covers halfway up his back to nestle under his capular feathers. The room was so much bigger than any space back at Baker Street, so well proportioned for both of their bodies. Sherlock slowly unbuttoned his shirt, watching from across the room as he dropped the garment onto a chair. As John lay in bed he flared my wings out, then upwards. The slow filtering of air through his feathers sent a ripple down his spine which pooled in his groin. Anticipation. This was it. Finally.

As John gazed at Sherlock, he looked unguarded, standing naked in the private space. Naked and uncharacteristically vulnerable, his hands fidgeting and smoothing down nonexistent ruffles in the hair on his equine shoulders.

“Come and lie down, Sherlock”

In a fit of obedience, he crossed the space of the room, folding himself down onto the fluff of hay in the space of the bed, leaning his torso down to rest his head on the pillow beside John. They lay for a few moments, staring at each other, adjusting to the subtle differences in a person’s face only brought out by very close proximity.

Sherlock was the first to move, bridging the gap between them. He brought his face close, then stroked the tip of his nose down the side of John’s. When he reached the end, he drew back fractionally then switched to the other side. Sherlock continued to nuzzle him in languid strokes, his eyes closed. The gesture was took John’s breath away with its beauty, trusting and so innately equine. He was laying himself out for John, letting him in, showing him the side he kept hidden from the world. The movement, that Sherlock was sure to think of as a hopeless indulgence, John thought was so perfect that it might shatter his heart to dust inside his chest.

John extended a wing out to Sherlock, running a few tentative feathers along the flat of his back before letting the crest dip down and come to rest there.  
John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, needing to be sure, “I couldn’t tell what you were thinking.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said with a smile and half lidded eyes.

“Why didn’t you say something? It’s been so long.” Sherlock took one of John’s hands, running his fingers over it in quiet reverie, kissing each of his fingertips.

“I needed to be sure.”

“Sherlock. I...” John couldn’t keep the soft tremble from his voice as his throat tried to clamp down on the words, “I want to fly with you.” He was hyper-aware of his surroundings, every point of contact along their bodies, every quiet sound and rustle. The moment stretched out between them, John’s heart hammered in his chest and Sherlock’s breath brushed hot over his fingers. He pressed a slow kiss into the palm before moving it. Sherlock lay John’s palm against the black hair of his side then guided John’s wrist downwards, remaining silent.

Before, he found reasons, engineered situations to allow a casual touch, to briefly connect with Sherlock on a physical level. Now he was touching Sherlock unashamedly and honestly, pinned and invited, savouring every hair under his palm as it planed across the smooth surface.

When he felt it, John made a sound beyond words, throaty and guttural and entirely out of his control. Sherlock held his wrist, pressing his hand against the divot in his ribs. The concave dip was shallow but undeniable present and John’s fingers felt every smoothed out contour of it hungrily.

“I’m sure now, John.”

When their faces found each other, it was bruising and messy and perfect and the beginning.

 

 

Epilogue

Ostensibly, they were there because the case had brought them to Port Isaac; cocaine smuggled in under the cover of fishing boats into the unmanned harbour. John had booked a room at the lodge because it was near enough two years since they’d been together and they could do with a break from London, no matter what Sherlock said.

There were also certain... facilities offered there which couldn’t be found in London that suited a special occasion.

They were out in a private paddock, entirely surrounded by a wall of solid woodland with a gate that served as a simple border to the space rather than a barrier. They were rented by the hour and came with a total privacy guarantee.

John pulled the straps taut on the saddle with a snap; feeling Sherlock tremble slightly, his massive chest flexing under the hard leather. The saddle fit snugly against his back, the moulded leather curving perfectly with his contours. A rounded, leather shaft protruded proudly from the seat, canting slightly at an angle.

“Sherlock, are you sure?” John tried to see his face, but Sherlock remained steadfast, looking into the wall of trees beyond the clearing. A crimson flush crept across his neck and down the pale skin of his back.

“We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure, John.” he said, stamping one of his front hooves into the grass for effect.

John shrugged and slipped the thick strap into the buckle, running his hand beneath it to check it wasn’t too tight and taking a luxurious second to dip his palm into the divots of Sherlock’s ribs as he passed them. They were so much deeper now, his hand pressing in beyond the surface plane of his chest. Sherlock let out a low whinny at the touch, flicking his tail against his haunches. John smiled to himself, keeping his hand in the dip and gently nibbling a line along the rounded corner of his ribs.

“John, _please_.” Sherlock flicked his tail again, this time lightly raining horsehair down John’s back in impatience.

Looking down, John could see Sherlock’s length, extended and hanging low beneath his belly. He willed his hands away from where they still explored the divots, spanning them down the smooth hair of his side and then slowly, impossibly slowly, downwards. Sherlock’s shoulders tensed in preparation, the lean muscles of his back dancing under the pale skin.

John gripped Sherlock’s penis, feeling the hot weight of his in his hands as he gently lifted it. It never failed to take his breath away, holding Sherlock as he stood so vulnerable and open above him. There was trust between them, a connection that had grown to encompass every aspect of their lives, and this was a demonstration of that bond.

Under the saddle, hung a wide panel with pale pink cushioning on one side. He pulled the leather flap across to him, enveloping Sherlock in the soft pink crevasse it formed beneath his undercarriage. Sherlock rocked his hips into the sensation, taking a jerked step forward and back, a guttural neigh escaping his throat before it could be swallowed back. He was letting himself go, slowly but surely.

John stood, taking a moment to slowly exhale and roll his shoulders back in preparation. He shed his clothes quickly, hooking them on the gatepost and picking up the black riding crop which hung next to it, looping it round his wrist.

He moved up Sherlock’s body, running the leather loop of the crop along his side and dragging his primary feathers over trails of sensation left behind. He continued to push the crop in a firm line up the centre of Sherlock’s bare chest. He kept the touches slow, letting Sherlock adapt to the feel of the leather and analyse the touch. He paused to tap the leather lightly against each nipple, eliciting a groan from Sherlock whose eyes had fluttered closed. His chest was blossoming red as he fought the embarrassment of indulging his equine self. John knew that Sherlock wanted this but after a lifetime of fighting with his instincts, sharing this side of himself, even with John, didn’t come easily.

John ran the crop up to Sherlock’s shoulders, curving it to lay behind his neck and adding a light pressure, urging his head down. He reached out to lift the reins from a hook on the wooden fence.

“John, we...” Sherlock looked at John with heavy lidded eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay.” John lay a soothing palm against the hot skin of Sherlock’s torso, tracing his fingers over his lower ribs until the air dragging into them slowed fractionally.

He positioned the brass bit against Sherlock’s lips, a sharp exhale brushing over the cold metal in his hands, “Open.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, gripping the bit in his teeth as John blindly fastened the straps behind his head. With the clasp fixed, he pulled his hands back, gripping Sherlock’s face and pulling it further down to him. He stood on tip toes, nuzzling his face against Sherlock’s in slow sweeps before pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and gently biting down.

Silently, John tried to show him that it was alright, that he accepted him as he was; half man, half horse and entirely perfect.

John stepped back from Sherlock, whose head stayed bowed. In the pocket of his abandoned trousers lay a small bottle of lubricant. John slicked the rigid shaft on the saddle before reaching one foot into the hard metal of the stirrup and levering himself upwards.

John hovered for a moment, reaching his foot into the other stirrup and flaring his great wings out for balance. Air rippled through the stretched-out feathers as he lowered himself slowly, edging down and feeling the slick pressure against himself. He paused, taking a few controlled breaths as he sank himself down further. When his knees began to tremble, he used his wings, a few powerful beats to cushion the slide.

The leather felt solid and unforgiving inside him, his muscles taking their time in softening and allowing the intrusion. Eventually, his skin touched the rounded seat beneath him and he let out a hard sigh. John gave himself a few more minutes to adjust before wrapping the reins around one hand and taking hold of the crop in the other.

He needed to gather himself, needed to command, to lead, to ride. John would peel away everything Sherlock used to surround himself, to distance himself until it was just them; the winged man and the centaur.

“Walk on,” said John, his voice miraculously sounding as sturdy as he hoped it would be. Not getting an immediate reaction, he flicked up the reins, the thin straps slapping down against the skin of Sherlock’s back which arched slightly before he began to walk.

John groaned loudly as the saddle undulated inside him, rocking in a slow rhythm that pulsed through his entire body. They crossed the small paddock a few times, John tugging the reins left or right, pulling Sherlock’s head to either side as he emitted a series of low, throaty neighs.

“Trot on,” came as more of a tremble than the stern command he intended, his body vibrating as the saddle fell away from him and thrust home again. His wings stretched out, flapping hard to try and cushion the relentless rise and fall that threatened to undo him, only succeeding in running his over-sensitised secondary feathers along Sherlock’s sides. John shuddered at the sensation, the long secondaries sliding over the damp hair at Sherlock’s flanks before hitting roughly against the saddle.

He jerked the reins in his hand again, whipping the riding crop against Sherlock’s hind quarters with a crack. The rhythm changed immediately. The rise and fall ceased, the pace quicker but more shallow as Sherlock switched to a canter. John’s body lurched forwards, pummelled into submission, his cheek pressed against the sweat slicked skin of Sherlock’s back and his leaking erection trapped between belly and hard saddle.

The breeze played over their bodies, cooling damp skin and ruffling splayed feathers. John’s feet slid from the unyielding pressure of the stirrup irons, pressing into the hot skin of Sherlock’s belly, blindly seeking contact.

They moved together, instinct taking over as their bodies aligned and began to slot into position. John’s legs slid neatly into the furrows along Sherlock’s sides, slotting into place as though they were coming home. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, hands desperately craving the touch of bare skin on skin.

He felt connected in a way he’d never experienced before, intense and complete. This was it, what he’d been searching for his entire life. When he’d sought out his endless string of short-lived girlfriends, when he’d first started medical school, when he’d first joined the army. It was all to feel connected, to fulfil the indefinable craving which burned inside him and now that fire took him over.

His wings stretched and flexed, beating against air which seemed to become more tangible around them; no longer simply falling through it as they had done his entire life, the air seemed to push back, moving against him, supported him. Them. John felt his feathers splaying and manipulating the breeze that flowed over them, moving and pushing and lifting.

The rhythmic pounding of Sherlock’s hooves against the turf became softer then silent.

John kissed Sherlock’s neck, crying out his name as he came in hot spurts across Sherlock’s back.

They were perfect; together, the winged horse.

Always.


End file.
